11. Poor Becky

“I don’t want to have to bring stuffing again! He hates my stuffing!” The answering machine message from my sister Becky rang out. “Why does Mom make me bring it? She knows that he will hate it! I can just buy some, but then she will complain that it’s dry or something. Can’t you make it?” she paused to sigh. “But I guess you two are already making three or four fabulous things to bring…”

Deciding to ignore the obvious gay stab with the word ‘fabulous’ so critically placed, I prayed Thad had not heard it, as he would not overlook it.    

The message continued: “So can you just bring stuffing too? Please!”

The machine was silent for a second and then there was the noise of a great sucking in of air, as if a drowning man had just risen to the surface of the water to gasp his last breath, and then the message ended with a loud beep.

“It sounded like she just swallowed her tongue,” Thad said walking by the room with a laundry basket. “All over stuffing.”  

“Yeah,” I jumped; glad he had not heard her jibe. I hoped she was okay.

I was two when Rebecca was born, apparently under a bad star. I had always loved her, loved having a baby sister to take care of, to talk to when she was sad, to make laugh when she was happy, and to listen to when she was mad. But in the last few years our relationship had become somewhat strained as her life had become... complicated.    

Becky had never much succeeded at work, life, love or any combination thereof. I sympathized with her plight because we were both misfits of a crappy childhood dominated by an evil stepfather, both unprepared for the ugly actuality of the real world. But whereas I had gone to therapy and learned to take my childhood pain and roll it appropriately away so that I could have a semblance of an adult life, Becky had not. Becky refused to see a shrink and thus had more folded her pain up and tucked it into a drawer, but brought it out each weekend for a good airing. And at 39, Becky was now beginning to stand apart from me in the most astoundingly particular ways.

And with Thanksgiving in just four days, I assumed the current fit would only continue to amass.

I called her back and she did not answer, so I left a message, knowing she was standing in her apartment, arms crossed, frowning at the machine.

 “Yes, we can bring the stuffing,” I said. “Smith likes Thad’s stuffing, if you can believe it. You can just bring a pumpkin pie from the store. Call me. It’ll be fine. And calm down.”

I sat and cradled the phone, waiting for her to digest that, calm down, and call me back. It was a game you had to play with her if you wanted to talk to her when she was upset. I was fine with it, as it was who she was.  

Becky had never really fit in. She had been a somewhat popular and rather pretty girl, but not popular and pretty enough to be a cheerleader, a fact for which she had never forgiven God. Like myself, her weight had always gotten the better of her and she likewise had always had to fight it. This was another thing she had never forgiven the Almighty for. And, like me, she dieted and struggled and purged and binged, and basically still stayed heavy no matter what she did.

She married her one true love, Ray Phillips, five years ago, after two years of dating. He had finally proposed to her in Red Lobster with a cheap Sears ring, but she was thrilled. We all knew from her that he had cheated on her once, maybe twice, but we faked complete enthusiasm. They were married for one good month, and then had a series of fights that led them to separate last Valentine’s Day, after four years. He had moved to Oklahoma City to ‘think about things.’

The first few months she saw him every week or so, but that tapered off and now it had been three months since she had seen him. They still talked on the phone, but he said he was just ‘too damn busy’ to make it down, and she said she believed him. And now his phone calls were coming less and less frequently. Yet they were still officially married, and she still kept his name and wore the cheap Sears ring. Becky handled this by not speaking of the separation to us, and we did the same in her presence.  

I dialed her again and let it ring, but did not leave a second message. I assumed she was real tore-up by this as one follow-up call usually got her.  

Becky lived in her and Ray’s old apartment across town with her two white Persian cats, Fred and Ginger, who she combed obsessively. It was a fastidious place she kept bone cold at all times. Through whatever internal mechanics had wound me tight as a Swiss clock, Becky had been wound even tighter, God love her. Her OCD was so impressive it should be the spokeswoman for its own line of cleaning products. For this I felt much sympathy for her: OCD was a cruelly calculatingly and rigorous mistress, especially on the spouse, as my dear Thaddeus countlessly liked to remind me.

She worked as a receptionist at the Happy Daze Travel Agency on Campus Corner. It was a hack job but it paid her bills, although you could tell she wanted more. She carried herself with a certain haughtiness that Thad said “must run in the family.” She always wanted things to be pretty and expensive and exact; which were traits I respected in her. On a good day Thad thought her a prima donna task master who made Martha Stewart look like a homeless mess.  On a bad day he just called her a witch.   

Becky was smart, with a vorpal tongue, but had never finished college. She had said she would go back and finish once Ray made an honest women out of her, but she never had. For the first few years after they were married she spoke of going back and finishing, especially whenever Smith would make fun of her about it, but now recently despondent, she never spoke of it anymore. You could tell she was ashamed by this, so we never brought it up. 

Thad walked into the Den to gather some laundry from the closet, “Did you get a hold of Poor Becky?” That is what he called her.  

“No. But I left her a message.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t trained Fred and Ginger to answer the phone yet, she’s such a Nazi. ‘Answer it!’” He barked in a mockery in her voice, then in the voice of the cats, “’No, please Master Becky! No!’” and then back in his voice, “You know she takes a switch to them when they’re bad. No wonder they’re so well behaved. I can’t imagine doing that to Charlotte. Those poor cats have got to just be terrified of her. I know I am.”

Thad left the room with a laugh.

Becky and Thad did not get along, even though they had known each other since high school. They had never been friends, but were in the same graduating class, back before I ever knew who Thad was. Becky was in band and played the flute while Thad stood outside with the punk rock kids and smoked cigarettes and failed classes.

Thad said the reason Becky didn’t like him was because she was jealous that she didn’t have the life we had. She was usually cold and condescending to him, but he was just pissy and snide back. Becky told me she had never trusted Thad since he had made out with her at an 11^th grade pool party and then tried to sell her weed. At school the next week, apparently with a little crush, she tried to talk to him, but he didn’t remember her and laughed about being blackout drunk at the party. And then he tried to sell her weed again, there in the smoking section outside the High School Cafeteria. Let me tell you how fast Becky related that story to Mom as soon as I brought Thad home a few years ago and introduced him to everyone. To this day, Mother still holds onto her purse whenever Thad walks by, even though I’ve told her he’s clean and sober now.   

Thad stuck his head back in the Den, “Did you tell her I would just make my stuffing?”

“Yes, and told her to just go buy a pie.”

“Good.” Thad said coming into the room with his laundry basket, “You know she’s a good cook-I mean not as good as me, but passable- if she would just try less complicated recipes. She always wants to do something with goat head cheese or rutabaga or the zest of anise. She should just cut to the chase, add a lot of butter and salt and just call it good like I do.”

“You are excellent cook.”

“Thank you,” Thad smiled.

I continued, “Becky just wants everything grand and brought in a royal plate, so she makes aspic with walnuts and camembert fruit frittatas…”

“Oh God,” Thad interrupted, “Do you remember that raisin rum cake she made that was so full of alcohol I was afraid it was going to catch fire?”

“Yes!” I laughed, “That was last Christmases. She was so proud of that, but once it came out of the pan it just ran everywhere.”

“Oh, and she cried and cried that day,” Thad sighed sarcastically. “And now here we are looking down the barrel of another holiday.” He paused. “Has she heard from Ray yet?” 

“No. Not in weeks,” I sighed.

“That’s too bad.” He said.

“Yup.”

The phone rang and I reached for it, “Hello?”

“Michael, it’s me” Becky said quietly into the phone. “So you two can make the stuffing too?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“And Thad’s not going to rile me about it?”

“No, no. It’ll be fine,” Without thinking I waved Thad away, which I should not have done, as it always infuriated him. He instead frowned, sat down the laundry basket, and put his hands petulantly on his hips.

“You’re sure?” She continued, “I just don’t want a repeat of Mom’s birthday, where he snapped at me because I brought a store bought cake instead of making a homemade one…”

“No, no,” I said quietly, turning completely away from him, “It’ll be fine…”

Thad apparently figured out what I was doing and walked over to snatch the phone away from me.

“Oh, hi Becky. Yeah, hi. It’s Thad.” He gave me a smiley fake grimace and turned away with the phone. “So I will go ahead and just make the stuffing. It’s okay. We’re already doing my mashed potatoes, candied yams, green bean casserole, and cornbread, but I can just add it in….And make it…Um, hum….Yes…Not  a problem….Oh, probably just Stove Top and then I add some stuff…No, I haven’t had it with oysters…” he looked at me and made a gagging motion, then back to her, “I’ll put apples in it, maybe some almonds….Yes...No... It’s fine, I can take care of it…Yes, that’s okay…”

He stared walking back and forth quickly and I could tell he was just about to lose it.    

“Yeah…” he continued, his voice getting pitchy, “Well, lookit, here’s Mike back….yeah…gotta go!” and he just thrust the phone back at me and stomped out of the room, with a dramatic wave of his hands and a muttered “Jesus H. Christ…”  

“Hey, Beck, so it sounds like you two got it covered.”

“I don’t appreciate it when Thad treats me like that,” she growled into the phone.

“What?” I said, hoping to God he didn’t come back.

“When he treats me like a complete fool,” she continued, “Like I have no idea how to make stuffing. I know he’s a good cook and all, but I thought he’d just like to hear some of my ideas, but I could totally tell he didn’t care one bit…”

In my quietest voice I said, “Ignore him. He’s just in one of his moods…”

And from the other room Thad burst out, “What did you just say?”

“Look, I have to go Becky.” I said rising, as I was more intimidating to Thad at my full height, rather than splayed out on the couch.

“Oh, did Le petite prince hear?” She said smugly.

Thad came running into the room, “Get off the phone!”
          “Becky, I have to go…” I screamed into the receiver.

“Whatever Michael! I’m not one to tell you how to run your relationship…” was all I heard before I hung up on her.  

“What do you mean, ‘In one of my moods’? That’s just you taking her side like you always do!” Thad spat.

“Well, were you snarky to her? She said you were, about the stuffing. You know how sensitive she is.” I could tell he was not really upset, just bored and in need of my attention. He hated Becky for the affection I showed her, as if that somehow took away some of my affection towards him. They both were like big eight year olds, with me the toy they fought over for no particular reason.

“No!” He screamed. “Well she is just crazy! This is about stuffing! She needs to be committed!”

And as we got into it I wondered if maybe Becky had the better deal, what with a misplaced spouse, a sterilized cold house and the ever over-combed, but silent, Fred and Ginger.  

12. Turkey Day: Round 1

As we pulled up in front of Mom and Smith’s palatial home across town, I felt my heart beating in my throat. I hated family events. Hated them. Hated Smith.

“Hey, you okay?” Thad asked, a hand on my arm.  

“Yeah, sure,” I lied. “This’ll be fun.”

“Just take a deep breath. We don’t have to stay long. And if he’s awful just come and get me and I’ll defend you. Remember, he doesn’t scare me, okay?”

“Thanks.” I looked Thad in the eyes. For all of the snipping and bickering and mistrusting and backstabbing we did, this here made up for it: I knew he would have my back and defend me against Smith any time, any place. At times like this, when he was my champion, I was reminded why I loved him.  

“No problem.” He said with his wicked smile. “You get the mashed potatoes and corn bread. I’ll get the other two dishes.”

We gathered our things and walked up to the big teak front doors, the November wind whipping about us.

My parents divorced in 1976 when I was 8 and Becky was 6. I had only seen my real father twice since then, once when I was 10 when he came for a short visit, and another time when I was 14, but I only saw him as he drove off that time. I found Mom and Becky inside crying. Mom had said they had divorced because of their ‘differences,’ but would not talk about it otherwise. I don’t remember much about him. I think he lives in Vegas now, but as he’s never made an effort to contact me, I never made the effort to contact him. Becky found his address a few years back and wrote him letters for a few months around the time of her wedding. He never responded so she just let it go, the way he let us go. Through my therapy I’ve become okay with it, but Becky, not so much.

My Mother, Trudy Morgan-Stiles-Svenson, greeted us at the door, dressed in her rosy finest, squinting into the sun. She was 64, a short rotund brunette woman, filled with joy and prescription pills.  

“Oh, hello boys!” She said, “Come on it! It smells great!”

We piled in. The minimalisticly decorated house was set with small touches of red and gold fall leaves and hand carved gourd candle holders. Becky waved from the sterile formal living room.

Mother was nearing sixty-five, but her girth afforded her fewer wrinkles for a woman her age. She was short, like Becky, but had bright red dyed hair, the color of a drag queen’s dreams. She wore a cockatiel colored pantsuit with a gold cornucopia broach on her lapel. She always smiled.

Taking one of the dishes from Thad, she addressed him, “Oh, these smell so yummy. What is it?”  

“Oh, that’s the candied yams. I made my own marshmallows…” he gushed. 

“Oohh!” she squealed. “I can’t wait to try them!”

“I know!” Thad said, “It’s a recipes from that blousy drunk blonde from the Food Network, and it’s just to die for!”

“He’s been cooking all week for this,” I said, holding the door as they went into the kitchen, giggling.

I had come out to my family late in life, at 33, but was so glad I finally did. I think I just had to really be sure about it before I said anything. I told Becky first, but swore her to secrecy. She said she had always known because since I was a kid I always referred to my clothes as ‘outfits.’ A few months later I came out to Mom & Smith, in a respectful and quiet way. Mother was fine with it, besides a little Baptist crying. Smith had just grunted, but I didn’t particularly care and he knew that. I was happy Mom didn’t flip out or die or try to change me or something. I guess they always knew. It’s not like I wasn’t a flamboyant child or anything. 

 Then when Thad and I got back together a few years ago, I finally introduced him to the family as my boyfriend, and they politely took to him. Mother was gracious and Smith cold and nonchalant, as was his way. At least they weren’t rude or freaked out, but I could tell they still had some reservations, especially about Thad's, shall we say, checkered past (Thank you Becky). But Mother faked it well, and Smith hated everything, so his coolness to Thad was nothing special, thus it had worked so far. But this was only Thad’s second Family Thanksgiving, and I could tell he was nervous, as was I, but for different reasons.      

I walked into the living room to see Becky. At 39, she looked like a blonde Mom, short and round, but not happy about it. She sat amid the overstuffed tan and peach Mathis Brothers furniture, surmounted by pillows covered in chocolate cowboy fringe.   
“Hey,” she said, throwing down a magazine and walking over to me. “Watch out. He’s on tear.” She wore a green velveteen track suit, with her blond shoulder-length hair pulled up into a smart pony tail.

“Smith?”

“Smith. Earlier he walked by me while I was eating a deviled egg and I swear I heard him make a piggy sound.”

“No!”

“Yes!” She said, looking around cautiously. “Mom said he’s mad about the pool or something. It didn’t get winterized right, or something, and now he has to have the guys back out to redo it or something. And, of course, he blames her for it.”

“So he’s mad about money; that he’ll have to pay the pool guys again.”

“Money. As always.”

“What about money?” Smith said from behind us in his odd Swedish accent.  

Becky let out a small shriek and stepped back, eyes down.

I turned and forced myself to look casual.

Smith stood frowning, his eyebrows bent down at odd angles. He wore an old grey suit, his white hair cut short, his matching beard and mustache trimmed neatly. He had to be nearing 70, but he had always seemed old to me. He had all the charms of Max Van Sydow from that movie where he plays chess with Death.

“Oh, just talk about bills. It’s nothing.” I said. “How are you Smith?” We never had addressed him as anything other, and he was fine with that. He was never a real father to us, so there was no reason to call him that; He was simply the man our mother lived with.

“Fine, fine,” He said dryly, eying us. “Yes, yes, fine, I suppose. You know.”   

Smith Svensson had been born in Gothenburg, Sweden, but moved with his family to Tulsa when he was a teenager. He went to school and became a divorce lawyer, and had moved to Norman in the rockin’ eighties to take a job with a downtown firm. He was Mom’s lawyer in their divorce. They were married not too long after the divorce was finalized. I was 11 and Becky was 9, but even that young we knew he was not our original father, nor did he have any desire to be. And in that careful cat’s cradle there was some balance: he did not love us and did not desire to be loved by us. Or at least that’s the way I saw it; Becky took a more emotional stance. Whatever the case, we never took his last name.

    

“Are you having problems paying your bills again?” Smith said, sidling up to Becky.

“No, no. It’s fine.” She said, eyes averted. She was terrified of him, for his forked tongue was also barbed. Oh, and the fact that he used to hit us when we were young, and Mother cried, but never stopped him.  

“Is your car paid off yet? How much do you still owe on it?”

“About a thousand dollars,” She stuttered. “Not much.”

“When I lent you that two-thousand dollars last Spring, you said you would pay me back after you paid off your car. That’s what you said. And I have been waiting, because I thought you would have it paid off by the Fall. But here it is Thanksgiving, and what?” He smiled. He had small square grey teeth. “So, when do you think you can get that paid off?” He looked at her like a particularly disgusting scientific specimen.

“Smith, come on. Leave her be,” I interrupted, trying to get the attention away from her, to save her. “Let’s not talk money.” I faked a laugh.

“Oh, no,” he chuckled, turning to me. “Heavens no, not money on the holiday. We can’t talk about that. No, no, it’s the food holiday. The day Americans give thanks for all of their great grand food. We can’t talk anything serious.” He winked at both of us and turned to walk off, but then turned back, “And you two look awfully thankful for all you have been given.”  He smiled his small square teeth smile and walked out of the room with a slight piggy snort.  

After a few seconds, when he was clearly out of earshot, Becky whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“Yup.” I answered with a roll of my eyes.  

“I knew it,” she said excitedly. “He did snort at me before. And now he just snorted at us. I can’t believe that.”  

‘Yup.” I looked at my watch and sighed. It was still early.

13. Turkey Day: Round 2

“I swear he snorted at us….” Becky said. I had followed her to the kitchen so she could tattle.

“Oh, pooh,” Mother said with a wave of her small pink hands. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it…”

Thad pushed by with a “pardon em moi” to shuffle a casserole into the oven.

“Now, Mother, I am not an idiot.” Becky continued, “I know a piggy snort when I hear one. He made one to me earlier and now he just did the same thing to both Mike and me.”

“He was probably just clearing his throat,” Mom said, putting green and black olives into a white hobnail dish that used to belong to her mother. “He’s been sick on and off for a while. He’s even lost more weight, poor thing.” 

“Really? Really Mother? He’s a ‘poor thing’? That’s ironic. I am just too old for him to continue to torture me about my weight.” Becky said aggressively, then to me, “Tell her.” She jabbed me in the ribs with a sharp finger.

Everyone in the kitchen turned to frown at me.

“Well, Michael?” Thad said with a small smile at the corners of his mouth, “Did he?”

Becky frowned at me so intently her eyes almost disappeared completely into her face.

Against my better judgment, as I knew it would be better to just let things go, I said, “Yes. It sounded like a snort.”

“A piggy noise?” Becky said, coming up to me, nodding her head in psychotic frantic agreement.  

“Yes, a piggy noise.” I said with a deflated sigh, now giving Becky the ammunition to sulk for the rest of the day.

“See!” She said, dancing around me, “I told you! I told you!”

Mother pursed her lips at me, “Michael you just encourage her.”

“Well, it is true,” I said. “He should keep his bone thin feelings to himself. We all didn’t have the advantage of being born to a line of emaciated Vikings who only eat krill and herring and snow, or whatever they eat up there.”

“You’re preaching to the choir!” Becky laughed, putting back another deviled egg.

 Mother and Smith had visited Sweden twice in the 90’s, and Mother’s only opinion of it was that it is was cold and the food was all too fishy. We had never been invited, which was fine. Even in all of my worldly academic travels, I had never set foot in the Land of the Midnight Sun, nor ever wanted to for fear it would be full of humorless men like Smith.   

“You two go set the table, while Thad and I finish up here.” Mother said, with a wave of her small hands.

“Fine fine” Becky said with a huff. “But I told you…”

Becky hummed a Christmas song as she set out the good china and I placed the water and wine glasses. We joked and pretended to lick all of Smith’s silverware. It was an odd dynamic, our family, as Becky and I were middle-aged yet we were still the children of the family, as neither of us had introduced children into the mix. Becky had wanted children, but Ray did not. A few months after they were married she had gotten pregnant “on accident,” but lost it and was crushed. We never brought that up. I had no desire for children; rearing Thad was enough of a challenge for me, plus he would probably just get jealous and lock the child in an oven or perpetrate some other fairy tale horror to them, so it was for the best that we were childless. But because of this, Becky and I still got to be the big kids we never outgrew, and it was just rather accepted.

   Becky went back to the kitchen and Thad came out a minute later, “That woman is working my last nerve.”

“Who?”

“Your mother!” he snapped. “She keeps laying things down and then accusing me of moving them. She is getting just senile.” I could tell by his body language that he needed a cigarette.

“Did you bring them?” I asked.

“What?” he said coyly, eyes darting.

“Your cigarettes?”

“Yeah,” He shrugged. “They’re in my coat.”

“Just go out behind the garage. I won’t say anything:” When we had both quit smoking last year, Mother had been so proud of us that she had made us a cake. I had not told her that he had recently started back up as it would embarrassed him. He appreciated that.

“God, I love you!” he said looking me in the eyes and squeezing my hand. “I’ll be right back. Tell Betty Off Her Crocker in there that I’m in the bathroom if she asks.”

“Will do.”

He looked around to make sure no one was around and then leaned over and kissed me on the lips and said, “I’ll be right back.”

I smiled as he ran out of the room, and continued to set out the glasses, humming the Christmas song Becky had gotten stuck in my head.

A few minutes later Smith walked in. “Why is Thaddeus outside the garage?”

“What?” I feigned. “Is he?”

“Yes, I saw him from my upstairs Den window. He appeared to be smoking. I thought you two stopped that awful habit.”

With teeth clenched, I leaned into Smith, “Yes, but Thad started back up. It’s just his nerves…don’t say anything to Mom, okay?”

“His nerves?” Smith laughed. He had a high-pitched Nordic laugh that made little noise, but came with exaggerated actions like hand waving and belly touching. I hated it.  

“Yes, he’s a very nervous person. It calms him.” I said in a more aggressive tone, hoping he would back down. 

“Nervous about what?” Smith laughed again, “He doesn’t work. Has he ever worked? He just sits around your house and watches television. What does he have to be nervous about?”   

I could not think of anything to say, and I so wanted to backhand him right then and there, as he was right, and I felt the same way. But I was not allowed to feel that way, as I had to be on Thad’s side. And even though Thad did not have a lot to be nervous about in my book, he was a nervous sort nonetheless and I had to respect that. But to have to defend that to someone like Smith was an impossibility. So I just looked away, ashamed of Thad, which made me ashamed of me. 

“But you are not smoking again are you?” Smith continued.

“No.”

“Good,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the table. “At least hopefully we can keep the cancer out of the family. I’ll be upstairs. Call me when the meal is ready.”  He smiled a tight smile and left the room.

The light in the room moved slowly overhead as everything seemed to stop in time. Smith’s words jumbled in my head, toppling one over another as I tried to make sense out of his sounds. He had said ‘…cancer out of the family.’ He was saying that he was glad I was not smoking so I would not get cancer…but that Thad might, as he smoked…but that would be okay, as Thad was not part of the family. Not part of the family. Did he really just say that?

As the door shut behind Smith I realized his implication. Smith was saying if Thad died, it would be okay because he was not really a member of the family. But Smith did not say it outright, or did he? Did I just imagine it? I ran his words though my head again in the other direction, and wondered if it was his weird accent or if I had heard him right.
I decided he had said it was fine for Thad to die from cancer because he was not a member of the family. Yes. He had said it. Smith had. Smith had actually said that to me, to my face, about my boyfriend, who had been part of my life for over twenty years now, and a part of this family for more than two years. Smith had said it.    

Time began again as the blood flooded my face and I felt simultaneously weak with pain and empowered with rage. The thick beating of my heart jarred me back into reality. How dare he? How dare he? How could Smith be so pointedly hateful? I wanted to kill him with my hands, and I could do it, here, on the table, right on the Thanksgiving table.

But no, I could not. I could not confront him, not here, and not now. And that’s why he said it. Smith knew I could not fight back. It was Thanksgiving. I had to be good or I would be labeled "the one who ruined Thanksgiving.” So I had to stay mum. And I could not tell Thad, as he would verbally thrash Smith right then and there, and that would make it all the worse, as then Thad would be "the one who ruined Thanksgiving.” And Smith knew that too, and that’s why he said what he did. Smith humiliated me and left me in a position where I was helpless. I was helpless.     

  Someone came into the room behind me. They were humming, moving things around on the table. They said something to me that I did not hear. Then they touched my arm.

“What?” I jumped from my trance.  

“What’s going on?” Becky said, “You look so upset.”

Against my better judgment I told her what had just happened.

“You are shitting me!” she gasped. ‘That’s so horrible!” She grabbed me to give me a tight body hug. “I’m so sorry. He’s such a monster!”

I hugged back. “Thank you, honey. So, it’s not my imagination? I didn’t misinterpret? You think that’s really what he meant? That he doesn’t consider Thad a part of the family? And doesn’t care if he dies of cancer?”

“Yes!” She gasped, looking up at me, “Oh my God, what a coldhearted bastard. He used to treat Ray that way sometimes, but never to his face. It’s just Smith’s oh so charming way. But, Jesus!”

I heard Thad laugh from the kitchen.

Pulling away I said, “But, oh my God, don’t say anything to Thad. He would eviscerate Smith.” 

“Oh, I would pay good money to see that!” she laughed.

“You can’t say anything, okay?” I snapped. “That would be disastrous. We just need to get this meal over with, and get the Hell out of here. Watching Smith and Thad go at each other like Titians would not help a thing.”

“But it would be so neato….” She trailed off.

“I just wish I had defended Thad.” I took her hand. “I mean Smith just said it, and I didn’t understand at first, I mean I just didn’t get what he said, and then he walked out. I didn’t get a chance to defend Thad…I didn’t even get the chance…” And then I teared-up.

“Oh, don’t cry, you’ll get all puffy…” Becky reached up to wipe my eyes. “It’s okay. Just ignore him. Let it go…”

“You’re right! You’re right!” I said, pulling away to pace back and forth, waving my hands frantically. “I just need to let it go. Let it go…let it go…”

“Let what go?” Thad said walking into the room carrying a plate of cornbread, a frowningly inquisitive look on his face.  

Mother followed to announce happily, “Well, you kids get ready, it looks like we’re about to eat.”

14. Turkey Day: TKO'ed

Ten minutes into the meal, I had still yet to speak, and it was becoming obvious. I was so freaked out that I was afraid if I spoke, I would cry. Before we sat down I had convinced Thad that everything was fine, and Becky had so far kept her mouth shut, but the air was pregnant with tension. Turkey, potatoes, gravy and all the fixings stood on the table like toy soldiers heading to war.  

“And so my cousin Maryann, that’s your second cousin, said to me…” Mother continued a longwinded story about relations we could not pick out of a line up, yet we all pretended to listen. She sat at the end of the table, with Smith at the opposite head, and Thad and Becky across from me.

Thad clicked his glass until I looked up. He mouthed, “What’s up?”

Having trouble maintaining eye contact I mouthed, “Nothing,” and forced a shrug.

From the other side of Thad, Becky then mouthed, “You okay?”

And after making sure Thad was not looking, I nodded “No,” and she made a sympathetic frowny face.

“So then Maryann said me to, ‘The coat was your mother’s, but I wanted you to have it.’ And I was just thrilled, as it was a nice old coat with a fur collar that I remember Momma wearing it to church on Sundays…” Mother continued to no one in particular.

“Becky,” Smith interrupted, causing her to jump. “You never answered me earlier when I asked you about the loan I offered you.” 

“What?” She squeaked.

“When I asked you when you could pay me back the money.” He wiped his knife on the side of his plate and it made a slow screech as the metal slid across the china.

I looked down at Mother, who apparently had taken advantage of losing the floor to investigate the pile of stuffing in front of her. Thad chewed and frowned at me. I knew he knew something was up.

“Well, it’ll probably be next summer…” Becky began, her voice wavering. “Our rent is going up January 1^st, so I have to make allowances for that. But I think I can have it paid off by next summer, so then I can start to pay you off…”

“‘Our’ rent? Don’t you mean ‘your’ rent?” Smith said matter-of-factly.

Becky looked like she had been shot through the chest, mouth open like a gash, eyes wide. Smith had gone where we were not supposed to go: Becky’s separation from Ray. She just looked down, silent, and I so felt for her.  

But I had no idea what to do. Do I let him get away with that too, or do I become "the one who ruined Thanksgiving," as Mother would put it for the next twelve months? I was just too weak. I could not do anything, I could not defend my boyfriend and now I could not defend my baby sister, and for that I was deeply ashamed of myself. 

“You should just keep all that to yourself,” Thad said with a mouthful of food, just as brazen as the day he was born.

“What did you say?”  Smith said like a Bond villain, turning to Thad.
“I said,” Thad repeated loudly, not a touch of fear in his voice, “’You should keep all that to yourself.’ This is Thanksgiving. We’re supposed to be giving thanks here.” He chuckled to himself. “And before you go talking about money and bringing up things you shouldn’t, and making piggy snorting noises at people, you should look at yourself sometime. I’m sorry you’ve been sick, but how much weight have you lost? I mean, you look like the Holocaust.”

The table was dead silent, for exactly two seconds until I burst out laughing, a grand guffaw that spit food all the way across the room. And then Becky joined in with me in her high pitched ‘woo hoo’ that sounded a joyous explosion of pent-up happiness and glee. And then Mom even laughed in her good church going ‘tee-hee,’ her tiny hands covering up her pink mouth. And Thad looked as proud as he should have been, taking another giant bite of yams through a huge conquering smile.   

And Smith just sat at the end of the table looking stupid as we laughed at him, no quick repartee, no sling-gun comeback; he just sat there and looked dumb. And it was the most joyous feeling ever. We laughed until we cried, and Smith never flinched, never batted an eye, which made us laugh even more.
It is a joy to see the cruel fail.

And when I finally caught my breath, I inhaled a long pure stream of good air and smiled at Thad as widely as I could and mouthed, “I love you.”

He made kissy lips at me and gave a saucy wink.

I reached for the cranberry sauce, as I felt all of my hatred and anger pass away. “This is really good sauce, Mom. Where did you get the recipe?”

“Well,” Mother began. “I got it from your Great Aunt Imogene, Maryann’s mother, the one I was talking about. Imogene was an old schoolmarm, and she used to make it and bring it to Momma’s, and we just loved it as kids. Isn’t it good? I just love it with the pecans and that bit of orange…”

For the rest of the meal we all laughed and talked and caught-up, and Smith did not say one more god-damn word, and for that we were all thankful.           

7. The Program

I have always been fat. Even while skinny in my twenties, I knew that I was really just a fat person masquerading as a skinny person. But I started off as a fat kid, and luckily grew into a tall man who lost a significant amount of the weight and kept it off for about a decade, but proved my own adage right by gaining it all back by the age of thirty. And then I just packed on more weight as I steamed toward 40. And now, at 41, I was not obese, but I was only about three pounds away from it, carrying around about 30 extra pounds.

In my linage, I clearly hailed from my mother’s roly-poly, bottom of the barrel, Irish potato folk stock. And my step-father, who was from a decidedly devilishly thin Swedish line, never let me and my likewise rotund mother and sister ever forget this. My childhood was fraught with constant nasty wounding comments about my weight spat by him, and then mother sneaking me sweets to make up for it. So the psychology of my heft was now twisted somewhere deep inside my gut, in a blackened spot I preferred not to poke at.     

But here now toppling over the age of 40, I decided I needed to diet again. This was necessitated by the fact that I was distinctly rolling toward having to start shopping at the Big and Tall Shops. I dreaded these places, as besides hosting a limited selection of billowy affairs, their items also carried appropriately heftier price tags. And while this was logical to me, as a shirt the size of a skiff’s sail should be more expensive than, say, a normal human-sized shirt, it displeased the miser in me.  So I mulled this diet idea over obsessively for a while before deciding to finally make it official by mentioning it to my dear Thaddeus.  

“I’m going on a diet,” I said proudly, standing up from the couch with some degree of difficulty.

“Oprah says to call it ‘A Program,’” Thad said rather sanctimoniously, as if Oprah had called him personally and told him to call it that.

“Oh, and what does Oprah mean by that?”

Without looking away from the television he said, “You have to affect diet, exercise, and life style changes together to lose weight and keep it off.”

Rather stunned by this completely logical bit of TV wisdom I said, “Well, that makes perfect sense.”

“Of course it does,” he said looking up rather Stepfordly, “Oprah said it.”

Thad had only recently put on some weight. For all of our lives he had always been the thin, pretty one. But as he neared 40 himself, something metabolic had happened, and he had began to sprout a belly like a surprise tumor, which, interestingly, he absolutely, completely, and resolutely chose never to acknowledge. 

Now, having always been skinny, Thad did not have the ingrained American knowhow to be ashamed of his fat, so he had no idea how to begin to wear this new belly of his. He started off by covering it with clingy sporty knits and stretchy horizontal striped poly-cotton blends, all of which fit him like the skin of a summer sausage. I so wanted to show him the way of the fat, how to drape and conceal and just put a damn coat over it all, but after the first few humorous comments I got in about his weight gain, I was regulated to the guest room for a night and instructed to NEVER bring up the topic again. So instead I had learned to endure shopping outings with him in a shirt so tight it appeared he was rustling a particularly comfy throw pillow, or jeans so snug he could not sit down properly, and had to be taken home laying prone in the backseat of the car.  

So because of this unsaid covenant between us, I knew I had to approach the whole idea of dieting carefully, as not to upset his sacred sensibilities. But because we lived together, I knew to make this Program work for me; we were going to have to make some changes.     

A few days later I dared to broach the topic again, as he stood in the kitchen making a cake.

“So, I’m going to start my Program next Monday.”

“Good for you,” Thad said with absolutely no good will in his voice at all.

“What I’ve decided is that I am going to eat less, eat better, only get one sweet a week, garden more, and walk to work more.”

“Bravo,” he said licking the batter covered spatula.

Even though his eyes said he wanted me dead, I decided just to go for it, “You know this might be a good thing for both of us to do.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING!” He erupted, as if from some demonic pit from far below the earth’s surface, coming at me with the spatula like it was a shiv.

“Nothing!” I whimpered, backing away, scared for my life.

“ARE YOU SAYING I NEED A PROGRAM TOO?” The voice was not his; it was otherworldly, maybe James Earl Jones’.

“No, no!” I couldn’t even look into his eyes, afraid their glare would turn me to stone right then and there in the kitchen. 

“THEN WHY DID YOU SAY IT!”

“I was wrong!” I cowered, “I just thought it would be easier on me if we both did it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

The next thing I knew he was simply gone, vanished from my view, as if he had evaporated before me, leaving no trace but the spatula tossed in the sink.

I later saw him smoking outside, and knew not to go to him.

We didn’t talk much that night.

Two days later I decided to broach the subject again, as my start day was quickly approaching.

I walked in to the Kitchen to find him making sandwiches for lunch.

“You know what one of the treats Mom would make us when we were kids?’

“What?” he said.

“A sugar sandwich.”

“Get out!”

“Nope. Hand to God. A sugar sandwich.”

“Just a sandwich made of sugar?” he asked.

“Well, it was two pieces of the gooiest white Wonder Bread you ever saw,  spread with butter, and then sprinkled liberally with sugar.”

“You…are…kidding?” Thad said mouth draped open for effect.

“Nope. That was our afterschool snack. My sister and I would come in from school and sing ‘Sugar Sandwich! Sugar Sandwich!’ and Mother would make each of us one.”

“My mother would never have done that. We got fruit or granola or something terrible. Sweets were Verbotene!”

“And that’s because you’re from a very thin line of people, so sweets were more of a special treat. But for my family of potatoes in overalls, sweets were an everyday occurance. And thus why I still have some of my weight problems today.”

We were silent for a minute, I think he realizing my point.  

He started quietly, “I’m not going to do a Program myself, but I will help you on yours, okay?”

“Okay. No problem. I appreciate that.” It wasn’t optimal, but I could live with it.

We were silent for another minute.

Then he said, looking me in the face, “And you know I think you look great just the way you are.”

“Thank you,” I said and my whole body went warm from my fat little toes all the way up to the top of my fat bald head.

           We finished making the sandwiches together.

8. Letter to the Editor

To Whom it May Concern:

I live in the campus historical district and work in my yard as much as possible. On Monday night, as I tended to gardening duties, I rounded the corner of my house to see a neighborhood woman standing on the sidewalk talking loudly on her cell phone, as her enormous dog pooped in my yard with the veracity of Ed Anser after an especially magnificent chili dinner.  As the dog finished and they began to walk off, the woman then noticed me, standing there mortified. It was then and only then that the woman stopped, and rather off the cuff said, “Sorry. Do you have a bag?”

I looked at her, like she was Monty Hall from Let’s Make a Deal, and said, “No, actually I don’t have a bag on me right here, standing out in the middle of my yard.”

With a shrug she said, “I’ll come back and pick it up,” and lopped off with a cutsie wave and a rather sadistic smile.

          A number of things came to mind. The first was that maybe this naïve neighbor woman had been sold this dog by a passing gypsy maven who had promised her that it was a magical dog that never did poop –and this sad, clueless woman only  found out that she had been taken by the gypsy while standing there in my front yard. Or my second thought was that maybe the dog had begged and begged his kindly clueless owner to be taken on a walk and promised not to poop as the lady was inexplicably out of all forms of bags or bag-like material, but then, there just in the middle of my freshly mowed and edged yard, he could just not stop himself. Or thirdly, maybe this boorish neighbor woman was just an irresponsible dog owner.  I thought about all of these possibilities as I realized, ironically, that this was not the first time that this has happened, with the same woman and the same dog, but different poop.

          And that poop is still out in my yard. And it’s been four days.

          I am now coming to the terrible realization that I fear my friendly neighbor woman is not going to return to perform the removal act that she promised me.  

          At this point I ask that this courteous neighbor woman to please return to my house, as I would like to exchange information with her. My reasoning is that since she clearly knows my address, yet I do not know hers, I would like to find out her home address so, at my convenience, I can return the favor by going over and pooping in her front yard.

Yes, that would be excellent.

                                                          - Concerned Neighbor Michael Stiles

                                                                                146 Tahlequah

                   

9. Dan Diamond is Forever

          Three years into our relationship, restaurant dinner conversation had become forced. We clearly knew each other, so favorite color and most liked movies are out. We talked off and on all day through phone, e-mail, and text, so ‘What happened at work today?’ has clearly already been covered by dinner, plus I’m not allowed to talk about work too much or fear his ‘dead-eyed zombie’ stare of doom. And we knew most if not all of each others ‘interesting stories,’ we both variously relate to friends and family when gathered. We, in fact, knew each other’s stories so well that we can usually tell them better than the other.

In our day-to-day lives this lack of conversation topics was fine, as we could both retreat to our separate TVs or computers, but face-to-face in a restaurant, on a ‘date night,’ we were put to the test. And the mine field to dread is that twenty minute barren valley of dust between the ordering of the food and when it arrives. In this gully you actually have to talk, and not just blather (as it’s a ‘date,’ as he reminds me) but talk about something interesting, compelling, something that reminds your partner why he quit drinking to be with you. In short, you have a twenty minute window where you have to justify your entire existence to your mate, or be left to perish alone on a ice floe.

          It is for these terrifying conversational instances that I search my memory all week for ‘just the right story.’ And when I remember one that I have not entertained my dear Thaddeus with, I hold on to it until just the right moment, to lay it out to him, to remind him why he loves and cherishes me, and why he puts up with all of my crap.

          “Is that all, ya’ll?” The Chili’s waitress smiled, a wad of green gum clenched in the corner of her shiny white teeth.

          “Yes, thank you.” I smiled.  

          She shook her golden locks like Miss Congeniality, turned and strode away grandly. 

          I looked over to Thad, who looked small and miserable. The restaurant was crowded and loud, both of which he hated, but this had been his night to pick-so Chili’s it was. Something about a guacamole burger he liked or something, I wasn’t sure, but I certainly agreed. He sat hunched, eyes darting from the boisterous table of high-fiving frat guys to one side of us, to the table of two guffawing corpulent  couples on the other.

          “Hey,” I said, leaning in to him, “Have I ever told you the story of Dan Diamond?”

          “No, who’s that?” he looked suspicious, sipping his sweet tea. 

          “Remember that first apartment I had back in 88’, the one that was part of the old cut-up house?”

          “Where you lived in the back, upstairs part?”

          “Yeah, yeah…well, while I was living there, this old guy moved into the house out back. It was just a tiny place, and he had a kid with him, like a little kid. But we shared the same parking lot, so I ended-up meeting the guy and his name was Dan Diamond. He was an old country man, probably fifty, kind of a John Wayne type, but on real hard times. The kid was his, named Billy, or something like that.”

          Frowning, Thad said, “Did you sleep with this man?”

          “No, that’s horrible. Now shut-up and listen to my story.” I continued, “So it was around Halloween, and I guess this was one of those times you and I had broken up…”

          “And you were sleeping with the neighbors…”

          “Shut up!" I barked. "So it was around Halloween and I remember because I had made up a bag of candy and treats and took them over to the little kid, he was probably 8 or 9, because they were real poor, and I just thought it would make the kid happy. Anyway, Dan Diamond ended-up inviting me over for dinner one night after that, and we ate in his little dirty house, but he fixed big steaks and we sat and talked and he told me his story.”

          “Uh hum…” Thad said drinking. I could tell I was losing him, as he was not much one for exposition. 

          “So Dan Diamond was from some small far flung little Oklahoma dirt town-Antlers, Pink-something like that…“

“Pawhuska,” Thad smiled.

        “Exactly! Maybe Pawhuska. Anyway, Dan Diamond began as an electrician, and by the time he was 30 he had moved to Oklahoma City and started his own company, Diamond Electric, and he had 20 or 30 guys working for him, and this is when we were kids back in the late 70’s, and he had a big enough company that he had TV ads that would play on Channel 25 during the old Count Gregore Creature Features that played Saturday nights…”

          “Oh my god!” Thad gasped, “I remember those commercials! The vans were red and gold with a lightning bolt going through a big diamond!”

          “Exactly!” I was thrilled, as he seemed completely enthralled.

          “So what happened to him?”

          “Well, that’s what I wanted to know! So over these big charred steaks in his little grubby apartment, he went on to tell me that about this time when he was just making it big, he was still a big ol’ drinker. And one night he was out carousing when his truck pitched off into a bar ditch while he was on his way home from some cowboy club. He was thrown from it, and ended-up almost dead, in a coma for about two months.”

          “Oh no.”

          “Exactly. And they didn’t think he was going to make it, but he did. And when he woke up, he opened his eyes and the first person he saw was this Nurse named Rita, and he said to her-now these are the first words he’s spoken in two months-he said to her, ‘You’re the prettiest thing I ever seen. I’m gonna marry you one day, little lady.’ And three months later they were married in Vegas!"

          “Good for him!”

          “I know! And the whole time he was in coma, his main business partner, Chet, or Slim, or something…”

          “Earl, Junior, Cletus…”

          “Exactly. But his main business partner, Chet, had been running the business, so everything was fine and dandy there, so Dan Diamond could go off and marry Rita, once he recuperated. Then they moved to a big ranch out in the country with a hot tub and they had their son, little Billy, and they lived just happy as they could be-for a while.”

          I stopped to take a drink of my Diet Coke.

          “Yeah? Thad asked eagerly. “So how’d he end-up poor, living behind that crap shack of a place you lived in?”

          “That was not a crap shack. It was okay for my first place.”

          “You had to walk through the bathroom to get from the living room to the bedroom. The bathroom was the hall.”

          “Okay, fine. But anyway, everything was great with dan Diamond until…" I paused, "Dan walked in one day to find Chet doing it with Rita, in Dan and Rita’s bed!”

          “I knew it! Rita, you whore!”

          “And Dan threatened to kill them, and they both ran, and she ended-up asking for a divorce, and she got half of his business, but didn’t want their kid at all. So she just left little Billy with Dan.”

          “Terrible, terrible Rita.” Thad said, shaking his head.

          “Exactly. And it was about this time that Ken realized that while he had been in the coma, Chet had fixed the books or something, so Dan was actually terribly in debt and had no idea, so Chet ended-up getting away wall the money, leaving Dan broke.”

          “Bad Chet!”

          “I know. So in one fell swoop Dan Diamond lost his wife, his ranch, his hot tub, his company, all of his workers…”

          “And all of those pretty red and gold vans with the lightning bolt going through the big diamond.”

          “Yes. And then Rita went off and married Chet in a big wedding up in Tulsa.”

“Horrible.”

“I know. And Dan was left penniless, trying to find work so that he could at least put food on the table for him and his little son.”

          “That’s terrible.” 

          “And that’s where I met him. All of this had just happened weeks before he had moved into that little apartment behind mine. So here he was, poor and sad and desolate, no job, and no money.”

          “Poor Dan Diamond.” Thad, the more emotive and empathic of the two of us, looked around sadly.

          “I know. It was a real tragedy.” I paused dramatically as Thad eyed me. I continued, “But about a week after the meal where he told me all of this, I was having some friends over for a party, and we went out dancing up in the City or something, and I didn’t get back until way late. So the next morning there was this knock at my door about 9 AM, and I stumble to get it, and look out the window and it’s Dan Diamond. And I’m hung over as Hell, in, I dunno, probably a kimono with mascara running down my face…”

“Because it was 80's.”

“Exactly. Because it was the 80’s. And I open it and am, like, ‘Yes?’ and Dan Diamond says in his gravely old man country voice, ‘Michael, I need you to level with me. I just need you to level with me. I saw you go into your house last night with my ex-wife Rita. And if you are having an affair with her, I just need to know it, and you just need to tell me, because you need to man up and just tell me.’ And I said, ‘Dan, I’ve never met your wife. I had some girls over last night, and maybe you thought one of them looked like Rita…’ And he cut me off and said, ‘No. No. It was Rita. I know it. I saw her come up here with you. Is she still inside?’ and then I realized he was serious, and more importantly, I began to freak out as exactly at this moment I realized that Dan Diamond was completely bat shit insane, and probably all of what he had told me over that dinner we had was some sort of giant crazy lie.”

“No!” Thad gasped

“Yes! I know!”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I just pulled my kimono up close and said, ‘Dan, you are mistaken,’ and I was shaking at this point, but I said, ‘I have never met your wife. You know that.’ And the look in his eyes, oh, that look in his old beady country eyes: He wanted me dead. He absolutely believed his wife was inside my apartment, and I think he was ready to kill me to get to her. So I just said, ‘Dan, I have to go now,’ and as I shut the door on him I just knew then and there he was going to kill me. And as I backed away, I could hear him outside breathing. And then he hollered, ‘Rita! I know you’re in there!’

“No!” Thad said louder than he meant to, then looked around embarrassed. 

“Yes! And I just pressed myself against the opposite wall, terrified, on the other side that that rickety cardboard door, and then after what seemed like about thirty minutes of him standing out there breathing all heavy, he just went home.”

I stopped to take a breath. Thad sat motionless, his mouth open.

“And that’s the last time I ever talked to Dan Diamond.” I continued. “We saw each other in the parking lot once or twice, but I never said anything to him again, never made eye contact, mainly because I was afraid he would kill me with his big country hands."

“Good God!” Thad sighed.

“I know. He and his son ended-up moving away a few weeks after that, which was good, as I was scared for my life every night till he left. And I’ve never seen him since.”

“Wow,” Thad said thunderstruck. “So you think he was completely insane and just made up that whole story about Rita and Chet?”

“I guess, I have no idea. We know the stories about the red and gold vans are real, but I don’t believe any of the rest of his story. I don’t know what to believe. But once he accused the gay guy of having an affair with his skanky old truck stop wife, I knew he was completely off his rocker.”

“Poor Dan Diamond.” Thad looked down to his hands. 

“I know. Poor Dan Diamond.”  I repeated.

“Here is your order,” the perky waitress said, wheeling back up to our table, “these plates are hot, so be careful…” 

She placed steaming plates of food before us.

Thad looked over at me and smiled and I knew that I had justified my existence to him for one more date night.